


my words will be your light

by dollsome



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 05:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18492025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: Sansa and Tyrion have another conversation. Set after 8x01.





	my words will be your light

**Author's Note:**

> I know that writing fic in between episodes is a silly practice because it will just get contradicted by the time Sunday rolls ‘round, but I had to celebrate the reunion of my faves Sansa and Tyrion after five (!!!) years not sharing the screen together. Writing about these two was my favorite thing circa 2013, and it was so fun to spend a little more time with them and imagine what other stuff they might have to say to each other.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is just, like, me having feels about these two human beings talking to each other. It’s really an exceedingly shameless creation!
> 
> I was also 100% uninspired in the title department, so I just fell back on a lyric from ["Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkOKCWDJ4iA), a song I love to listen to and weep internally at over its totally Tyrion/Sansa vibe.

Sansa steps outside, glad for the bite of the winter air, and walks until finally she can no longer feel the stifling heat and tension of the great hall. She leaves behind Jaime Lannister’s newfound repentance, Daenerys Targaryen’s fury and mercy, Jon’s odd somber silence. She leaves behind the news that she knew would come. Of course Cersei Lannister never intended to send her armies. Everyone older and wiser seems to have lost their senses. It doesn’t bode well for any of them in the coming war.

She only wants a few minutes alone to clear her head. She’s gotten used to having a voice, finally, and hates that no one can hear her now even though she’s speaking loud and clear. She knows that this isn’t King’s Landing, or a locked bed chamber, but she feels silenced and stuck all the same.

She walks until she reaches the godswood, then sinks down at the base of the weirwood tree and rests her head in her hands. Eyes closed, she breathes in and out, letting the cold soothe her. She feels more steady with every breath she takes, the sharp air returning her to herself. How could she have ever thought she was meant for warmer climes?

She just needs to keep her wits about her, and she’ll find a way to fix all of this, to convince Jon to listen to her. She has to.

“I’m a fool.”

Of all the voices that might have interrupted her, well, she doesn’t mind this one.

“You’re in good company these days,” she says, looking up to find Tyrion Lannister. She’s glad she hadn’t been weeping. She wants him to know that she’s stronger now.

“I’m sorry about Cersei.” He walks to her. “Something about the end of the world. It makes you hope that it might bring out the best in people. Even people you ought to have given up on.”

“I understand. It’s hard with family.” To say the least. She never would have guessed that one day Arya would be the only one of her siblings not driving her mad. “You’re lucky your brother fared as well as he did today,” she adds.

“Not a bit charred to a crisp,” Tyrion agrees merrily. “Fortunately, we’re going into battle, and he’s good for nothing if not that. I left him to get settled in. He’s catching up with that quiet giantess of a woman.”

“Brienne of Tarth. They’re old friends.”

“Funny. I didn't know my brother had any of those. Everyone seems to be reconciling with old friends these days, hmm?”

“Indeed,” Sansa says. Her mind darts to Jon. “Or making new ones too fast.”

Tyrion knows just what she’s thinking. “You still don’t trust our queen.”

Sansa wonders for a moment if she should lie. Tyrion is Daenerys’s Hand, after all. But she feels the same ease in his company that she has since she was a girl, and knows he’ll bring no harm to her.

“She’s very grand,” Sansa says instead. “But that’s not what ruling is. It’s not grand. It’s hard, and it’s usually boring work. It’s making sure that everyone has enough to eat and clothes to keep them warm, and earning your people’s loyalty with your actions, not just your title.” She stops, noticing Tyrion’s smile. “What?”

“You’re right, of course. I’m just not used to hearing you talk so openly.”

“Well, I’m in much less danger here of having my head cut off at any moment.”

“Fair enough.” He gestures to the empty spot beside her. “May I?”

She nods. He sits, keeping a careful distance between them.

“What is it about her?” Sansa can’t help asking.

Tyrion is quiet for a moment, thinking. “I was in my very darkest hour, and there she was. Something to believe in. Something to fight for. And she chose me to stand at her side. The drunken imp that no one had ever wanted.”

Something about the faraway fondness in his tone irritates her. “Has _everyone_ fallen in love with the dragon queen?”

Tyrion scoffs. “In love? No, no. Hardly. I’m her trusted advisor. Really more of a sage older brother, if anything. Quite an improvement upon the original, too, from what I’ve heard.”

“Good,” Sansa says, and then wishes she hadn’t.

Tyrion eyes her with what might be curiosity for just a moment, but before she can be sure, he returns to his usual wit. “There’s no hope for Jon Snow or Ser Jorah, though, I fear.”

Sansa doesn’t know about the tall man who follows the queen around like a faithful hound would, but she tries to understand for Jon’s sake. “She’s … she’s like something out of a song. All beauty and might. Come to save us all with her miraculous children.”

“Perhaps we’re in need of some new songs,” Tyrion suggests, “about wise Northern ladies with red hair and an extraordinary head for grain storage calculations.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, trying to smother a smile.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it,” Tyrion persists, “but Daenerys listens to those who have always been ignored. That’s what makes her different. She’ll listen to you in time. I think it will help her a great deal, to hear from someone who knows what it is to rule well in Westeros.”

Sansa feels a little stab of pride at that. “And if she doesn’t listen?”

“Then I’ll tell her she’s being an idiot.”

“And if she dismisses you for your insolence?”

He’s grinning now, and she realizes she’s smiling too. “Then I suppose I’ll be in need of a job. I see Lord Baelish isn’t skulking around any longer, though your brother warned me he might be. If you need someone to lurk in corners, might I offer my services? My smirking is inadequate at best, and I can’t quite loom like a man of his height, but I have been told I’m very pithy.”

“I’m not sure. The last man in that position had his throat cut.”

“Oh dear,” says Tyrion with a playful grimace.

“But we’re in need of clever men at Winterfell, so perhaps you’ll stand a chance.”

He tilts his head. “So I’m clever again?”

“You’re always clever,” Sansa allows. Her private vow to be unimpressed with him doesn’t seem as important as it did when he first arrived.

His smile brightens at the reprieve. “Then Lady Stark, I am in your service. If we all survive the coming doom, that is.”

“If we survive,” Sansa agrees.

They both stare wistfully into the distance. Snow has begun to fall around them, still light and delicate as a dream. It’s hard to believe that a world so tranquil can have room for such danger in it.

“If it all does end in ice,” Tyrion says, “and we’re left nothing more than rotting putrid mindless marchers in the army of the dead …”

Sansa wrinkles her nose, looking at him to see what he’s getting at.

His face softens when their eyes meet. “Then I’m glad I got to see you again. I’m proud of you, Sansa.”

The words fill her with unexpected, almost overpowering warmth, like tasting something sweet after years without it. She knows her siblings are proud too, in their way, but all of that is so tangled up in arguing over what’s best for Winterfell. This feels entirely different somehow. For a moment, she’s young again, her heart still eager and unguarded and certain that one day she’ll be cherished. She hasn’t felt that side of herself flutter to life in years. She’d been sure it had frozen over for good.

“I’m proud of you too,” she says. She is, never mind who he’s come here with.

Tyrion looks at her wonderingly.

“You could have drunk yourself into oblivion,” she explains. “I wouldn’t have blamed you, after what your father and Cersei and Joffrey were like. Instead, you’re helping to save the world.”

Tyrion chuckles, the laugh a little shy. It makes her like him even better. “I had forgotten just how well you know me. Knew me.”

Sansa is reminded suddenly of a moment she hasn’t thought of in years: at that wedding, reaching down and picking up the goblet to save her husband from being taunted by the king in front of everyone. Handing it to Tyrion even though she knew it would earn her Joffrey’s cruelty, because watching him suffer, all she had been able to think was, _We’re together in this_.

“We’ve suffered together, you and I,” she says.

“We have,” Tyrion agrees. “Do you think we’ve seen the end of it yet?”

“I hope so,” Sansa says. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it. His fingers curl around hers, just for a moment; then he pulls away gallantly. They sit together in the gentle quiet, watching the snow fall.


End file.
